Soldier on
by esama
Summary: There was a time when Sherlock ran away, and time when John danced. 25 unconnected, AUish drabbles with no particular pattern. Warning for slash and lot other things. SongMemeFic


Warnings; Memefic. Slash, crossdressing, mentions of drug abuse, general weirdness, messed up tenses and general messedupness. 25 unconnected drabbles in no particular order, written to the meme of "pick a fandom, put your player on shuffle, and write whatever comes to mind for as long as the song is playing". Which is what I did.

**Soldier on**

_1. Hurt_

Sherlock still got a certain reaction when he saw needles of any sort. It's the memory, old feel of tightness around his bicep and the burn, sweet, sweet burn in his veins, the feel of utter confidence, of sheer perfection when everything was still and in motion and every thing was clear. He can still feel it.

Sometimes it's hard to look away. Needles to him always looked so beautiful and ugly - he appreciates the sheer efficiency of them, knows how well they are made, how long it took to perfect the technology. But there is the underlying ugliness there, which is ever more beautiful, because he remembers, remembers, _forever remembers_ the feel of needle sliding in, so thin and so efficient, finding the right point and the feel of release as he pushed down, the liquid fire sliding inside…

He says he doesn't miss it, that he is clean.

He really isn't.

_2. Ready for the storm_

There is a nightmare behind John's eyelids. There was a bad wind that night, and it blows hard in his memory. No water, just sand and dry heat, like storm of emotion that he can't fight. He had been in a tent, no, in the field, no, kneeling beside a tank, tending to someone's wound, no, he had been standing out there with a rifle in his hands…

It is all so messy and chaotic and he shifts in his sleep restlessly, he knows, but there is a moment of clarity. The distant bang of guns going off, the boom of impact as something crashes and burns, and suddenly there is silence. Somewhere near someone is dead, or dying, screaming in agony, and in other side someone is yelling orders, here, there, go forth, stay back. And it's silent, perfectly silent.

He remembers, the moment just before the bullet had found its target in his shoulder, how he had thought, dreamed a day dream, of fire in a hearth and quiet moment elsewhere, of the damp and cold of London, the feel of warmth when it was so cold outside.

In odd way being shot had been the happiest moment of his life.

_3. Paloma_

Sherlock had run away from home. He had done with everyone knowing where he was and where he was going, with Mycroft tracking him all the way and Mummy being constantly aware of his location, but he had still done. It had been one of the hardest things he had done, but he would never say that because the effect of breaking free was in the fact that he had done it with relative ease, against all the hardships - he hadn't broken free, he had flown off.

It had been the sweetest moment of his life, when he had stopped and realised that there was a bridge behind him, burning, and that he had no idea about what to do next, where to go. He had wandered aimlessly for a moment, both in physical world and in his mind and most of all in the internet, looking. He had known his place in the world, but he had needed to carve it out to make himself fit there, and that had been so very sweet, so very hard.

It had taken longer than anyone - except perhaps Mycroft - had known, to make that spot. And he had still wondered, all the way, what he might've lost, and if the things he had gained were worth it, if he had shot himself somewhere along the way and lost all the brilliant chances. But no, he knew, he _knew_ that he had done the right thing, the only right thing for himself.

He hadn't really been Sherlock Holmes before he had been Sherlock without the backing of the Holmeses.

The breath of freedom had burned his throat - it had been such a cold day - and he had drank it eagerly, desperately.

Somewhere, his family had watched him, and even though none of them had acknowledged it, they had let him go.

_4. Nature Boy_

Sometimes John looks at Sherlock when he's in one of those moods, eyes wide and still somehow shut, hands pressed together, endless thoughts whirling in his head in the speed of the light. He is struck by the thought of how little Sherlock looks like a human, how he doesn't look like a man he is or the boy he sometimes almost acts like, but something more, something beyond it all.

There is unnatural, ageless beauty in Sherlock, that shines right through his skin - his mind and soul, the stupidity and wisdom combined to form a beautiful cacophony of brilliance. When Sherlock had decided to abandon certain things, like primary school stuff, for what he had considered more important, it was like he had managed to grasp some secret of universe and life that no one else knew anything about.

It made Sherlock glow, and John can't help but wonder if anyone really understood it at all.

If even Sherlock understood it.

_5. Piano Man_

Usually the only music in 221b Baker Street was either the sounds from telly, or Sherlock playing his violin. Sometimes though, when he's alone, John pulls up the deep buried mp3 files from his phone and lets them play, leaning back on the couch and remembering as the sounds of piano filled the flat.

Harry had been the family sweetheart. She had been a beautiful girl before she had started shaving her head. She had done ballet and played the piano and been generally very nice girl - the perfect daughter. She had been a good player too, energetic and flowing, she had like cheery songs. It was one of the few good memories John had about her, how she had played piano before cutting her hair and her relationships and gauging her way through life to become whatever she had wanted to become - ruining so much of herself in the process.

There had been one day, when they that been alone, and Harry had been playing the piano. Back when she had yet to become what she was now, and when John had dared to be what he really was, rather than what he pretended to be now. Back when she had been the perfect child and John the slight failure. She had played, her hair in loose braids, smile on her face, and he had danced, his hair longer than he dared to grow it anymore, his hips swaying in way they probably never would again.

It had been a good day.

Later she had disappointed their parents by falling in love with Clara, and suddenly John was the centre of the attention and he had to be the perfect, dutiful son, the one they looked up to - he had to be the normal one. And so he had became that, he had forsaken certain schools for medicine and certain careers for military - and yes, he had enjoyed that, but still sometimes, sometimes…

He remembers the girl who had played the piano, and the boy who had dared to dance.

_6. Hallelujah_

John writes silently, while Sherlock works something in the kitchen. He can hear the genius muttering something, his mad brilliance shining as he flitters about, from experiment to experiment, every now and then exclaiming in discovery, reaching for his phone to let the world know.

Rubbing his neck and writing with two fingers, John listens and writes Sherlock's brilliance to the blog - because what else he can do, but appreciate?

Then, all of sudden, it is quiet, and Sherlock is behind him, hands reaching forward. He commandeers the computer with ease, closing the word file and pulling the internet up, using a bookmark to get to his own site, to post some random, larger than life fact. John lets him, leaning back and feeling the warmth and hardness of Sherlock's chest against the back of his head, and wonders what would happen if he would wrap his fingers around Sherlock's wrists, and kept him there, just for a moment, keep him as still as he himself was.

But then Sherlock is going again and the word file is up once more. John sighs and glances after him with exasperated fondness, nothing else he can really do, and closes the word file himself. He'll write something later, he thinks, standing up and going to the kitchen, to linger by the door and watch.

Sherlock stops and looks at him, shaking his head slightly and raising his eyebrows, question in his face.

John shrugs his shoulders and when the genius stops, smiles bemusedly and goes back to work, it's a little hallelujah right there.

_7. David_

Sherlock stands up, phone in his hand. John's out somewhere, with some woman, and unable to help himself Sherlock writes a message, intruding. The killer is the sister, didn't John think so?

He leaves the living room and walks to the kitchen, with pretence of working in his steps even though there is absolutely nothing he wants to do. He looks at the phone instead, and waits. John doesn't answer, so he sends another message, saying that he needed second opinion, and it was matter of life and death.

There is no answer, and Sherlock heads out of the kitchen, first to his room, and then out. He walks over the coffee table and to the couch, sits down and gets up. John is being quiet, and Sherlock sends him another text. Is John there?

He shakes his head, John is busy, nothing to worry about, but it is irritating. He walks around the living room and then into John's room. Clean as always. He comes out again, bored and a little irritated now, and there is much to do and he can't do anything of it all, because he needs to know. He needs an opinion for a question that doesn't need an answer anymore, and John isn't answering.

He sends another message, fourth - or maybe eleventh one, he lost count rather intentionally a while ago - and stops. John texts, exasperation in every word, that he is heading back already.

Sherlock sits down, sighs and relaxes on the couch. Now he can think again.

_8. Gaeta's Lament_

John sighs, sitting beside Sherlock, attending to a cut on the side of his head, on his cheek bone. Sherlock had gotten into a scuffle with a suspect, nearly knocking his head open against a stone wall. The cut hadn't been deep but the bruise would be big, and it would be there for a while.

Sherlock was so pale, his skin so fair, that the bruise would be very vivid. A reminder of how Sherlock had ran ahead, yet again, and John had only caught up with him just to see him get battered.

"Just one day I'd wish you'd wait for me, rather than running off on your own," he murmurs. Little to the left, and Sherlock might've lost an eye.

The world's only consulting detective smiles, one eye shut as John applies the salve to his cheekbone. He says nothing, but then to say anything would've been useless, he wouldn't promise, and he wouldn't lie. So John sighs, begging some deity neither one of them really believed in, that maybe he would get luckier than Sherlock the next time, and maybe the bruises would be on him instead.

Sherlock was made of sturdy stuff, but he was so impossibly thin.

"Do you think it would make a difference, if it was you and not me?" the detective asked. "The only change in the situation would be that you'd be bruised, and not me. The difference between us isn't that big."

"Just once," John answered. Maybe then Sherlock would know how it would feel, to be on his side.

_9. Benzai-ten_

John was more or less certain he was drunk. It was the only explanation to the scene before him. Sherlock was… bleeding beautiful, he admitted somewhere deep inside. It made no sense though. Beautiful - and absolutely senseless.

Wearing a kimono, a _woman's_ kimono - authentic one at that, with all the tassels and thick belts and all, and not one of those western remakes made look like one but falling short. Belt and tassels and big bow on the back and wide sleeves - and socks and sandals and everything.

"Why?" he asks, a bewildered helpless little sound.

Sherlock smiles - god that paint makes his face look just… He tilts his head and the pins in his hair jingle. He turns, and John goes a little dry mouthed.

"It's for a case," the detective says - and yeah, John can see that, Sherlock doesn't go through this much trouble for anything else.

He wonders, as Sherlock takes dainty little steps around the flat, if he might be able to convince him to keep the kimono.

_10. Under the iron sky_

Sherlock stares at the postcard lifelessly, still a bit disbelieving of the turn events had taken. The flat still rings with John's presence, was still warm with the man's touch, but John isn't there. After having made seemingly perfect recovery, he had been recalled to duty, having never really resigned.

The postcard is from John, from that far off country in war. It has a seemingly meaningless picture and seemingly meaningless platitudes written to it. "I'm okay," Sherlock reads in between the lines. "Wait for me. JW".

It doesn't make it any better. John is fighting out there again, being shot at, and having it happen now rather than in the past is worse, because Sherlock knows that war is something he cant deduce to a finish, can't put a definite end to - there are no criminals to catch, just enemies, just opponents, just entire _other side_.

And most of all, Sherlock can't lie and save John from it like he would keep him from a criminal.

_11. Book of love_

John watches with a mild smile, while Sherlock flounders. It's not exactly floundering, not with Sherlock's elegance. He goes from subject to subject, from detailed analysis to another, from case to case, and in between he dances the steps of a perfect fighter - of the crime fighting machine he is - and he flounders.

John has already accepted the truth, though, and so he can see it in Sherlock, who fights it tooth and nail, tries to ignore it, to shut it out and push it aside. It is weakness in Sherlock's mind, in his perfectly analytical brain, but it's still there, and John waits patiently for it to ambush Sherlock.

When it does, the brilliant madman looks so very young, caught off guard. He stares at John who had just been making tea, and for the first time in long while Sherlock seems loss of words, loss of facts, loss of brain capacity to think. John smiles, finally, and holds out his hand.

"It… it defeated me," Sherlock murmurs into his neck. "How did it do that?"

"It's a sneaky thing like that," John chuckles, and kisses the side of his throat.

_12. Falling down_

Sherlock is elbow deep in internet. John watches over his shoulder, admiring the display of sheer efficiency that is Sherlock when he is trying to pinpoint a fact. Search engine comes and goes, then it's link after link after link until he has one fact. Then he follows down another line of information, searches for a word and then it's another link and another link until he's there, on the precise page he had been looking for.

Sherlock spins in middle of a search and begins to track down another fact, another moment in past, another pinprick of information. He writes an address and clicks and clicks, manipulating the sites perfectly, surfing down the highway of information with skills of lifelong athlete, and better. It's chaos and calm in single packet, whirling motion and loading screens and clickety-clack of Sherlock's fingertips on the keys, on the mouse, manipulating things to his suit.

In the end, everything lines perfectly, each fact neatly organised - not in physical or in digital, but in mental order somewhere in Sherlock's head - and as the man leans back John almost wants to hand him a cigarette or towel or cup of water after his digital marathon

_13. Shape_

Sherlock bluffs through life most of the time. People suspect it, they jeer about it and sneer their insults at it, but only John is completely aware of how much of Sherlock is fact and how much about of him is chance.

Sherlock waits for openings, for slips and expressions that give away the hidden truths when people hide themselves behind fortitudes of so called truths. John watches from the side how he hides his hand, what he knows, and lures the opponents into making moves that prove out to reach too far, too fast, and only end up revealing their hands to Sherlock's keen eyes.

Sherlock comes off being heartless, soulless at times, and it is especially when he flickers between his well played bluffs and what he really is that it shows. He goes from seemingly sympathetic bystander or a friend to being the cold eyed intimidating questioner and he throws people off their tracks so easily, that it is nothing short of masterful.

In the end, though, people always bet more than they can handle with Sherlock - because while Sherlock bets heavily, he never bets anything that matters, and yet somehow he comes off like every dime is all in, and that's what makes him deadly in the playing field. He bluffs and bluffs and yet he is never truly invested in any other form, than intellectually - while his opponents have bet their very souls on their games.

John shakes his head and looks away - and knows that he will never again be able to play poker seriously.

_14. Whiskey Lullaby_

It used to hurt more, the knowledge that Harry was drinking herself away for no go reason. John had gotten over it a while ago, though - he had tried too much to change Harry and gotten burned for it, and now he no longer can bear to care, it hurts too much. Now, when Harry comes to his and Sherlock's apartment with eyes blood shot and breath stinking, it doesn't hurt that he wants to throw the door shut in front of her face.

It comes to him as surprise, that it seems to hurt Sherlock more. It is not just the fact that nothing is supposed to hurt Sherlock - nothing is supposed to affect him. It's more than that. There are memories and recollections in Sherlock's eyes as Harry slumps down, loose limbed and weak with intoxication and withdrawal, knowledge of someone who's been there, who's done that.

"Should I send her away?" John asks quietly, after Harry falls asleep.

Sherlock sighs, shaking his head and rubbing his neck, then his arm, looking uneasy. "I don't mind," he says.

He lies. The line of his neck is uneasy, the slouch about his shoulders is awkward, his entire body is tight with disquiet as he walks to his room. John sighs, remembers a fake drugs bust, and promises to himself that Harry would be gone before Sherlock would wake up the next morning.

_15. Wish god was a woman_

"Sweet god," John murmurs, staring at Sherlock's legs - shaved and smooth pale legs that are being slowly covered in thin layer of stockings. There is nothing else he can get out, and Sherlock says nothing in return, only smiles fleetingly with slightly painted lips and concentrates onto his task.

It wasn't the first time John had seen it, and no doubt wouldn't be the last. Sherlock stands, clips the garters on, and lets his skirt fall to hide the insidiously sexual lace underneath it. John watches and swallows again as Sherlock turns away to play with his hair, usually comfortably messy and free curls now styled to the side with little bit of gel and something else, with clips holding it there, artfully and beautifully embracing the sides of his cheek bones.

Sherlock makes impossibly beautiful woman, as he touches up his eye shadow and adorns his jewellery, before pulling on the jacket over the blouse. His feet slip into the high heels with ease and skill unfit for a man, but oh, so very fit for Sherlock.

Sweet god is about right, slightly faint feeling John decides as the man turns to him. Just about right.

_16. You're not alone_

Sherlock is lost inside his own head. His thoughts are going in circles, in loops and spirals and nothing is coming to any satisfying conclusions. He is bored, beyond bored, beyond tired. It is one of the most dangerous things to be, he knows, especially for him because boredom makes handling a gun loosely a good idea, makes destructive experiments a good idea - makes chasing John away with cutting words a very good idea.

"Come on," a voice breaches through the cacophony of a mind no focus, and he looks up to see John there, looking exasperated and yet somehow warm. For a moment Sherlock teeters on the edge of chasing him away, chasing him off - because he is so unbearably easy going, never plagued with this horrible mood, so blissfully ignorant of what kind of pain it is to have mind like Sherlock's. Oh, how easy it must be, to be John Watson.

But he doesn't, because John is smiling and he never smiles in times like these. Instead, Sherlock reaches out and takes the warm hand, and allows himself to be lifted up. The darkness around him still looms, the boredom welling like a disease in his head, before getting chased away by something in John's hand.

"Oh," Sherlock murmurs, as the hand places his phone into his - showing him Lestrade's plea for help.

_17. Once upon December_

When Sherlock had been young, there had been ball dances in the house of Holmeses. When his father had still been there and his mother had been energetic and they had still tried to show the world how socially acceptable they all were. Men in impeccable suits and women in beautiful dresses had used to make circles in the ballroom floor, in elegant dances that had lost their true popularity ages ago.

He had danced himself, but never really enjoyed it. Dancing to him always seemed so dull - going around in circles, following a pattern, forcing himself in the form of old customs. How very dull.

John doesn't know how to dance and doesn't want to learn. Sherlock likes him a bit more because of that.

_18. Let me fall_

John squeezes his hands into fists, staring at the monitor that beeps in the pace of Sherlock's heart. He plays the moment in his head, over and over again, the explosion and leap of faith. He had been safe - training had made him duck to the side and to the protection of the wall - but Sherlock had leapt the other way and towards the pool - too late, far too late. The shock wave had sent him skittering backwards and now, if he'd survive, he'd limp and be bruised, battered and burned for the rest of his life.

Sighing, the former soldier closes his eyes, thinking. When he had rushed to Sherlock, to check that he was alive while his ears still rung with the explosion - uncaring if Moriarty was still there, and still aiming his proxy rifles at him - he had seen the most horrible thing in his life. Not the burns, not the fire, not even the broken bones.

No, the small smile still lingering on his flatmates lips.

"Idiot," John murmured, opening his eyes. He had known of course. Sherlock lived to the fullest when his own life was on the firing line of his genius, and that moment, that small destructive moment in time… Sherlock had probably been the happiest he had ever been.

And John hates himself a bit because he knows that if he had had the chance, he probably wouldn't have made it go any other way.

_19. Tired of you_

John knows that sometimes Sherlock wonders why he puts up with the man. Sometimes Sherlock almost seems like he wants to ask. "Why?" lingers unspoken on the man's lips, when John is left behind or bruised or nearly killed, when Sherlock goes off to another heartless tirade of sheer brilliance that belittles everything, when he damns John for a sentimental fool and demonstrates over and over again how he is nothing like him.

Sherlock wonders, with the experience of man who has seen countless of people get tired of him, get annoyed and angry with him and told him to piss off, why John doesn't to the same. John doesn't know how he could explain it - and yet he knows he won't even if Sherlock would ask. Because the fact that he doesn't get tired of Sherlock, even after he has been shot down time and time again, would in the end be the reason why Sherlock would get bored of him, if he knew.

Falling in love with the brilliant madman had been the worse thing John could've ever done, for both of them, but he can't help himself and so he won't get tired of Sherlock, won't get irritated or annoyed except occasionally, for a moment that might send him out for the night but which would then make him return as soon as he got his own temper under control.

There was little else he could do - and in the end, he doubts that at this point he could leave even if Sherlock really tried to shove him off, because the harder Sherlock tries the more John knows the man needs him to stay, and even if nothing will ever form of it, nothing will ever reach it's sweet or bitter conclusion… maybe that's enough.

The status quo was brilliant and painful and John wasn't tired of it yet - and never would be.

_20. Nobody's home_

Sherlock stared listlessly at the ceiling. John had walked off on him, not for the first time in the last week. He had pushed it too much, he knew. In his boredom, in the unbearable agony of having nothing to focus on, he had pushed too far, and John had reached his breaking point.

He'd be back in the morning, the analytic part of his brain thought without hint of worry. John always came back in the morning or the after noon, and they'd move past the bitter one sided argument without any problem - and in his unspoken way, John would forgive him, understand him, and never say it aloud because he thought Sherlock didn't need to hear, didn't want to hear.

It wouldn't have hurt, Sherlock thinks and lets his hand fall to the couch, almost wishing he could get a nicotine patch and knowing it would make it only worse. He can always see it on John's face, on Mrs. Hudson face, but hearing it out loud sometimes wouldn't have hurt in the slightest.

Knowing, that despite how he pushes, how he breaks and tears down the things around him, there is still some people who don't think him a freak and nuisance for it.

_21. Have you ever seen the rain_

Sherlock stops, as John fails to follow him. He glances over his shoulder and sees his flatmate standing frozen in the sidewalk, face turned upwards, eyes closed. Confused, Sherlock glances up. The clouds mill there, heavy and dark, and it would rain soon - it already was, in thin mist that got everywhere without quite making you wet.

The detective almost asks what John was on about, before realising the foolishness of the question. "Oh," he says instead, and waits. It comes about every now and then, who knows what triggers it - random noise, random move, something, anything. But sometimes John stops and remembers.

It's good thing it's about to rain, Sherlock muses and wishes he had a cigarette to smoke while he waited for John to see the rain.

_22. I can't decide_

John sighs to himself while putting his hands to Sherlock's shoulders. The Detective is curled up in the end of the bathtub, slightly rocking, deep in thought. It's not one of those dark moods triggered by boredom, no, this is worse than that.

Sherlock is thinking about Moriarty, and only by curling into himself he keeps himself still and from jumping up. running around, making a complete fool of himself on the high of sheer un-harnessed energy that still curls inside him, dreaming of the day he can bounce the enemy that had beaten him so sweetly.

"Come on," John says, sighing as Sherlock looks up and grins, no doubt thinking something he'd do the next time, or should've done the last time - or recalling some brilliant move Moriarty had done that he was only getting the chance to appreciate now. "Come off it," John says - nearly pleads.

"The next time is going to be magnificent, I know it will," Sherlock murmurs.

"Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of."

_23. Unforgettable sinner_

John never told anyone, not his superior officers and definitely not Sherlock, but he had missed, once. It was of course only expected in war zone - you can't hit all the targets and in midst of fighting it's so hard to tell, there is no definite clear shot, no perfect targets, no easily predicted outcomes… and yet, he knows this is worse than most misses, because by missing one, he had hit the other.

It's dark in London outside his window, dark and quiet bar the sounds of the city and the distant bark of some dog. It is so different from what it had been like, but somehow it reminds him of that hot sun scorched day, when he had missed, lifted his gun, trying to hit the enemy, and somehow…

In the silence of his bedroom, he lifts his arms, holding a rifle that isn't there, and aims. Aims with time and patience like he couldn't at that time, aims with precision that people expected of soldiers. In the silence of his bedroom, he wouldn't miss. But then, in his bedroom, lives weren't on the line and the stress wasn't quite so severe.

Maybe one day, running with Sherlock and trying to save the lives Sherlock didn't care about, he'd make amends for it.

Probably not.

_24. __Breathe_

"Come on, Sherlock. In and out, slowly," John coaxed him through the gasps, rubbing his shoulders with strong fingers as the detective fought for breath. "Slowly, slowly -!"

"You - try - breathing - slowly!" the man gasped back in choked tones, his head bending forward and nearly to John's chest as he sucked another desperate breath. John grimaced at the sound of his voice, glancing around them and rubbing Sherlock's back. The madman that had tried to kill his flatmate was long gone and the alley was empty. No point in trying to catch him.

"What is it with you and people trying to choke you?" the doctor asked, after Sherlock had somehow managed to catch his breath and was now leaning back against the alley wall.

Sherlock laughed, breathless and too high, nothing like his voice usually was. "I'll get - back to you - on that," he rasped, couching and rubbing the red line on the long line of his throat. "I'm still seeing stars," he observed with wide eyes and another rasping chuckle.

John sighed, pushing to sit beside him. "Just breathe, Sherlock," he advised once more.

_25. Still alive_

Sherlock was giggling where he lay, almost smack in middle of the living room floor. John eyed him with mixture of disbelieve and disgust, mostly because he couldn't stop the twitching of his cheeks and lips. The first chuckle that burst through was nearly smothered by his hand, but when Sherlock answered in kind, he couldn't help the breathless giggle from breaking through.

"This isn't funny," the former soldier objected, unable to help the giggles from bursting through, especially since Sherlock was doing nothing to stop himself from, doing the same. "Oh, god at least this isn't a crime scene," John muttered, giggling some more.

"It is. Just not this crime," Sherlock answered, snorting and turning to his side, curling to himself and giggling like a little boy to his knees.

John snorted, falling to his knees.

It was good day to be alive.

xx

First thing I wrote to BBC Sherlock fandom, trying to get used to the characters. Messed up a lot of it, but some of it is still somewhat decent, and I'm just bored enough to throw it into the void, as messy and as unclean as it is.

my apologies for possible grammar errors.


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